Land That Gave Us Birth And Blessing
by Phoenix Lam
Summary: Annaka is a knight of the round table, sharing her life with the Sarmatians we know and love. Her story begins two years before the battle of Badon Hill, when magic still ran deep in the roots of Briton. A dangerous mission beyond the wall tests the loyalty and strength of our knights, introducing them to forces they thought lived in children's tales...
1. Be Brave

There are four tribes among the people of Sarmatia. The Roxolani is a clan of fierce warriors, skilled in the art of war as well as the art of forging armor and weapons that hold no equal on this earth. The Aorsi are solitary folk, highly spiritual and peerless with bow and arrow. The Iazyges are nomads, always moving and changing, traveling along the sea as fishermen and sailors. The Siraces are smaller than the rest, but no less proud. They are skilled merchants and gifted with horses. It was to this last tribe that I was born, on a cold winter morning twenty-five years ago. At the time of my birth, Fever ran rampant among our village. My mother was among its victims; she was buried with many others just two days after my entrance into this life. My father, a wool merchant named Allen, was left behind, with three children to raise.

I woke up one morning, as snow fell in large flakes from the sky. I found myself thinking about my siblings as I lay there, staring at the ceiling. The oldest was Argyle, at eighteen. Next came Amara, at sixteen. Lastly, there was me, at twelve years old. I had been named Annaka after my mother. Both Argyle and Amara had inherited father's flaxen hair and friendly green eyes, while I was stuck with my mother's thick, tangled lion's mane of hair as black as pitch. My eyes were angry, the deep blue of waves pulsing beneath a stormcloud. It frightened many of the villagers, and as such I wasn't allowed to play with the other children very often. As if our family needed anymore unwanted attention.

A father, with no wife, raising three children alone?

A son whose mind was far behind his body?

A daughter, already two months pregnant by a Roman guard?

No, we certainly weren't lacking in things to draw attention to ourselves. I may not have known everything about the world, but I was old enough to know what the stares from the villagers meant whenever I was out in the street. They were ashamed of me, and my family. Even so, my father was a good man, and he did have many friends. He looked older than he was, and I knew it was because of Argyle. No one knew why my brother had the mind of a babe but the body of a man. We just accepted it, and moved on. He was able to help around the market stall, doing menial tasks like sorting goods or counting coins. It worked well enough, as it was, but he would never be able to ride a horse, or have a family, or serve the Roman Empire.

Bile rose in my throat at the thought of the Romans. I dragged a brush through my hair, my teeth grinding together. It was an old debt that we Sarmatians paid, in exchange for sparing our lives upon their invasion, generations ago. Sons and daughters were to serve the Roman cavalry as needed, taken from their villages every few years. You might be thinking, why daughters? The Romans have a quota to fill, just like the rest of us. As long as they get the manpower needed to serve their Empire, the gender fails to matter. So it was the case when they came again. I had dressed into brown leather breeches and boots. I pulled a white tunic over my head and put on a fur vest, running outside with my hair in my face. People were gathered in the town square, and I saw why, my eyes landing on great red plumes that curved above golden helmets.

The Romans had arrived.

The Commander was a heartless man, with a scarred face and cold black eyes. He walked along the row of families that had lined up, tapping children on the shoulder after inspecting each one. When he came to Argyle, he didn't even flinch. He kept walking as if my brother was invisible. His eyes landed distastefully on Amara's swollen stomach, but he paused to look at me. With a hand, he moved my hair from my face, lifting my chin up sharply and looking me square in the eyes. His own were blank voids, unfeeling tunnels of darkness. He tapped my shoulder, and moved on.

"No!" Amara cried, trying to hold me back.

My father put a hand on her shoulder and pushed me forward into the square as the commander looked back.

"Make sure that child has a horse," He said gruffly. "I'll not spare any of mine."

My father went to the stables as I hugged Amara round the waist as best I could.

"You'll write to me, won't you?" I asked her.

I felt her hand stroking my hair in long, slow movements. "I promise," She said.

When father returned, he led behind him a young horse. The deep blue roan had been found wandering near the coast—a wild thing, the villagers called him.

My father lifted me up into the saddle and spoke in a quiet voice.

"Be brave," He said to me. "Do as you're told, and trust in this horse. He is a good mount; he'll keep you from danger. I love you, Annaka."

I knew the legend of great warriors returning as horses to serve new soldiers. I believed my father's words with all my heart. He took a ring on a thick leather cord from his neck—two dragons met at the top, their tails forming a knot around the band. It had been a gift from my mother.

"Love you, Papa," I said, taking the ring from him. "You too, Amara; Argyle!"

My brother, after a moment, lifted a hand in a solemn farewell. It was more than he had done in all the years of his life, and my heart swelled with pride at his acknowledgement of me. It was replaced with fear as we rode away from the village, and my family, without a backward glance.

* * *

I learned from listening to the Commander that our post was Badon Fort, in Britannia, across the great sea. It would take months to get there. Much of our ride was in silence, until we reached the port that would carry us to our post. My mount, which I had named for his color—Blue—whinnied as he was taken from me by one of the guards. Blue and the rest of the horses were loaded below deck, and I was terrified of the upcoming voyage. I had never seen the ocean before, but the sight of it on that night—flailing around like a leaf in a gale as a storm raged on—was enough to make me want to turn back and run home. We filed onto the ship and took our quarters—one room, with bedrolls on the floor. I took a roll by the corner, laying myself down immediately and pulling one of the thin wool blankets over my shoulders. I watched with wide eyes as the others came into the room. The bedroll next to me was taken by one of the bigger boys. He had a full face and calm grey eyes that eased the nervousness in my stomach. He smiled at me, holding out a hand.

"I'm Dagonet," He said, his voice low and quiet. "This is Bors, my cousin."

He gestured to another boy, at least twice his size (horizontally, anyway). Bors grunted a hullo and slumped down by some crates.

"My name's Annaka," I said to Dagonet. "Are you from Siraces, too?"

He shook his head. "Roxolani."

They had a fearsome reputation—men and women alike—as brave warriors and blacksmiths. We in the Siraces tribe had traded their weapons at high prices—the craftsmanship had no equal, neither here or anywhere in the world. Still, the boy in front of me had kind eyes, and so I was not afraid to sleep that night. The days melded into one long stretch of time, but I learned every boy's name soon enough. There was Galahad, the youngest among us, who hailed from the Iazyges. Also from his tribe were Balin, Percival, and his brother Lamorak. From the Aorsi tribe came Tristan, Agravaine, and his brothers Gawain and Gaheris. Besides Dagonet and Bors, a young boy named Kay had been taken from the Roxolani. From my own tribe came Lancelot, a hot-headed youth with curly brown hair and wandering eyes, though he was only fourteen. It did not surprise me that he loved to cause trouble. Altogether, there were thirteen of us. The Iazyges boys took to the sea like it was an old friend, but the rest of us struggled with sea-sickness and wobbly legs that made for a miserable voyage. When we reached Britannia, I was overcome by the sheer wildness of it. Apart from Hadrian's Wall, where Badon Fort was located, much of the land was untamed…and so green! Not like my home, brown with mud almost all the time. Badon Fort was run by Romans, and I had heard that our commanding officer was a Roman.

When we were brought into the meeting room, whose space was taken up mostly by a great, round table, I was shocked. Standing in front of us was a boy, younger than most of us, with keen brown eyes and knobby knees. He was introduced as Artorius, or Arthur Castus. Over time, we simply called him Arthur. He was more level-headed than most of us, and he proved to be wise for someone so young. By the time introductions had finished, I was exhausted. We were led to our quarters—an entire wing of the fort had been reserved for us. The rooms were small, but I was ecstatic. I had never had my own room, much less one with a pair of windows and a feather bed. I was neighbors with Dagonet and Galahad, which pleased me just fine. My only concern at the moment was sleeping. I pulled the heavy oak door shut, falling with a satisfying thump onto the cloud that was my mattress. My eyes closed, and my last thoughts were of home.


	2. Eat, Drink, and Try Not To Kill Anyone

_**THIRTEEN YEARS LATER**_

The Knight's cemetery at Badon fort was quiet. It was a stark contrast to the larger graveyard just beyond the wall, which was inundated with new burials—so much so that a running joke had begun to circulate, suggesting that we should make the dead pay taxes. A plague had hit Badon fort, called the Ghost Death. There were three phases to the disease. First, fainting spells and heavy fever, followed closely by convulsions. The body would shake violently, even while sleeping, and it sapped the color from a person's skin after about two days. The third phase began once the person had become completely white, their veins showing through the skin like a crudely drawn map. It was at this point that the convulsions would stop, replaced instead by a whooping cough that brought blood from the lungs. The body was wracked with pain, and once the third staged was reached, there was no recovery. Perhaps a week would pass, perhaps only a couple of days, but the Ghost Death claimed almost all who were unlucky enough to catch it. Children fought it with the most success; however the elderly had almost no hope. We had buried so many these past months, and some thought that the plague would not stop until the fort was empty. I was taken from my thoughts as a breeze picked up the ribbons of cloth that were tied to the hilts of the swords that marked the graves, making them snap in the air. Blue, now fully grown, grazed some distance away from me. I whittled patiently at the block of wood in my hands, using my boot knife to carve out a design for Gilly, the eldest son of Bors. The surly knight had ten children now—his "little bastards", he called them—with Vanora, the tavern keeper. I smiled at the thought of him: the loud, boisterous man that he was, trailed behind by a gaggle of children that loved him more than life itself. He loved them, and Vanora, too, though he would never admit it without being heavily inebriated first. He was, like all of the knights I knew, a good man. Even Lancelot, though lacking in moral fiber, had a code of honor. My thoughts turned to the dark-haired knight for a minute. Even as a young boy, he had a wandering gaze, his dark eyes never missing a flirtatious wink or failing to watch as a woman's hips began to sway when she walked. He appreciated women for their beauty, and was often seen leaving the tavern with one on each arm. He would even flirt with me, as he did with the other female knights when they were alive—Elyse and Viviane, their names had been. I missed having other women around terribly, especially those who knew what it was like to be a knight in service to Rome. We had lost many during our long years—our numbers had now dwindled down to ten. Arthur, Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain, Dagonet, Bors, Tristan, Agravaine, Kay, and I were the only ones left, and it was a wound that cut all of us deeply. I looked over to Blue, who continued to munch on the tall grass even as the weight of my weapons that I had strapped to his saddle must have been beginning to take their toll on him. I saw the largest weapon first—a double-bladed glaive, deadly in both long range and outnumbered combat. Second, I had a sword that glinted in the sunlight—it had been forged by Percival, one of the fallen knights who had been a truly gifted blacksmith. Lastly, Blue held onto my sidearm, a small but sharp hunting knife that—when coupled with the sword—gave me a high body count on the field of battle. I shook my head at the irony of it. Generations ago, Sarmatian cavalry had surrendered to the Romans in exchange for their lives….and the lives of their children, and their children, and their children….it was as Lancelot often said: "better they had died that day".

When Gilly's toy was finished, I suddenly remembered why Blue was strapped with weapons. I was missing training, and Arthur would be less than pleased with me. The sun was beginning to set—it was too late now to try and attempt a game of catch-up. I sheathed my boot knife and mounted Blue, spurring him into a swift canter with a short cry. I rode past the training grounds, now empty save for our squire, Jols, who was trying to reconstruct a dummy that had been split in half. I removed everything from Blue, who nickered at me as I put him into the stables. I walked about 100 paces to the west, and found myself in the tavern. It was full of people, per usual—Roman guards, commoners, and my brothers-in-arms. Vanora was rushing around with pitchers of ale, mirroring several tavern wenches as they weaved in and out between boisterous patrons. Galahad, the youngest of the Knights, caught sight of me first.

"Annaka!" He called, raising his cup in my direction. "Have a drink!"

His words were already quite slurred, and his curly brown hair was so damp with sweat that it stuck to his forehead. He smiled at me as I walked over, his wide eyes clouded with the effects of too much ale.

"We missed you at training," Gawain said.

The blonde-haired knight tried to take me about the waist and draw me into his lap, but I pushed myself away from him, smiling.

"I am no tavern wench," I said. "Hands off."

Lancelot laughed, taking a swig of his drink before replying. "Best do as she says, Gawain. Wouldn't want her to ruin that pretty head of hair you have."

Gawain punched Lancelot in the shoulder, hard. At that same moment, I heard a voice from nearby.

"Catch."

A green apple flew towards me from the corner of the room. I caught it and smiled at the knight who had thrown it—Tristan, our scout, who said little but saw much. He and I shared a fondness for apples and the occasional conversation. I nodded my thanks and took out my boot knife, cutting off a slice and relishing the crunch as I began to chew. I felt a tug on my leather tunic after a moment, and looked down to see the dark head of Gilly, Bors' eldest son. He smiled at me, expecting something.

"One day I won't have a toy for you," I said to him, feigning a stern tone. "What will you do then?"

He grinned and shrugged, holding out his small hands. I took the wooden horse from behind my back and he lit up like a candle, bringing it over to Bors to show off. The burly knight smiled at his son, sending him to his mother's arms with a wink. I finished my apple, had a drink, and remained in the tavern for only a few minutes more, the noise quickly driving me to wit's end. I walked until I came to a courtyard, seating myself on a rock and watching the stars. Normally, I was as social as Galahad, or Gawain, but lately I had been taking cues from Tristan, seeking more solitude than usual, though it was not in my nature. I had the strangest feeling in my heart that something was about to change, and it was unsettling down to the very darkest parts of my being. Not only had the Ghost Death worsened, but the Roman guards were bolder than usual, committing more crime and dealing out unfair tortures and other punishment that had no place in civilized society. It smelled of mutiny to me, though they would be foolish to cross Arthur Castus, in my opinion. In the west, heavy clouds were gathering—snow, without a doubt, was on its way to our home at the wall. People were already preparing—grain sales had doubled, extra hay was laid out for the animals, and the fashion was changing to furs and wool, rather than simple linens. The silence of the night was interrupted by the deep peal of a bell, ringing out against the stillness and meeting my ears with urgency. It was the infirmary's only way of asking for help—a call to all those able and brave enough to deal with the plague. Perhaps the other knights were too full of ale to help, but I still had my senses. So, without wasting another moment, I stood and moved at a quick pace toward the sound, hardly looking up once.

* * *

The hospital was a frightening sight. Beds were full of people, many as white as fresh cream. Some had blood on their mouths; others were shaking violently, and still more were sweating through the sheets they lay upon. I moved to the back room, where I was met with the sight of a tall, broad giant of a man mixing a large bowl of herbs into a sticky paste. He had large, calloused hands and close-cropped hair. His size and silence were off-putting to most, but his grey eyes were kind, and his face was darkly handsome, though there was a scar near his left eye. This was Dagonet, our resident apothecary and the last Knight I would want as an enemy on the field of battle. He had been a constant friend to me these many years, watching the world with a silent stoicism that I wish I possessed.

"Have you made any progress?" I asked him.

He looked up at me briefly, his silver eyes meeting my blue ones with a look of concern.

"I have a new poultice, here, made from willow bark and coltsfoot, among other things. It cures the fever. The plague loses its grip once the burning stops."

I smiled, putting a supportive hand on his shoulder. "This is happy news," I said.

He nodded. "I cannot do much for those with convulsions or the cough, but sage and lavender infusions seem to take away the pain and help them sleep. I pray to the Gods this will be over soon; we are running out of beds."

I smiled sadly. "Is there anything I can do?"

He handed me a thick bunch of sage, mixed with lavender and other herbs I did not recognize.

"Light the end of this with one of the torches on the wall there. Spread the smoke in the main sickroom; it will calm them. Perhaps then we can get the rest of this poultice made."

I did as he asked, and was astonished when his remedy worked. Most all of the patients were asleep once the smoke had spread, and those that remained awake seemed to be in much less pain. It afforded the workers attending to them the chance to take much needed rest, as Dagonet and I did once we had used the rest of the willow and coltsfoot, saving small batches of the poultice for later use. He walked beside me in the street, watching the Roman guards with a look of disgust.

"I do not like their whisperings," He said quietly, his breath warm as he bent down near my ear. "One would think they are up to something."

I smirked. "They are Romans, Dag. They are always up to something."

He issued a short laugh. "You forget Arthur is a Roman."

"Only half. His mother was a Briton."

"True. Tell me something, Annaka."

I nodded, a silent permission for him to ask his question.

"Will you return to Sarmatia when our service is ended?"

I shrugged. "I haven't thought about it. That day is two years away—there are more important things to worry about now."

"Tell that to Galahad," Gawain said ahead of us, falling into step beside me once we reached where he was standing. "All he ever talks about is home."

"What is home, I wonder?" I asked aloud. "Will it even be the same as when we left?"

Gawain put an arm around my shoulders, stumbling over a small stone as he spoke.

"I have lived longer in this life than the other," He said, a heavy slur in his words. "I would'na be surprised if Sarmatia had burned to the ground while we've been gone."

"You should not say such things," Dagonet said darkly. "Lest they be true."

"Bah, you are a superstitious pagan!" Gawain yelled.

I laughed. "So are you, long-locks."

He glared at me, before turning the other way and retching up the contents of his stomach.

Bors laughed at the sight of us as we reached the tavern. He took Gawain from his place beside me and supported his weight.

"Time to get you home, brother," He said gruffly. "Till the morning, you two."

Dagonet gave a solemn wave to his cousin, and I nodded with a smile.

"Till the morning, Bors," I said. "Don't let him vomit on your boots."

Bors rolled his eyes, carrying Gawain through the streets as the long-haired knight began to sing at the top of his lungs. I thought to myself as the noise faded. _He is going to be a ray of sunshine in the morning._


	3. Fever Dreams

Arthur had called us to the round table early the next morning, with no hint as to his purpose. I looked across the table at Gawain—he looked like he had lain with the horses in the stables, and answered Galahad's questions with a series of grumbles. I tried hard to hide my laughter as Bors oh-so-daintily plucked a piece of straw from Gawain's golden head. When Arthur stood up, his red cloak billowing about him, there was silence in the hall.

"Knights," He said, his voice matter-of-fact. "We have been called to action once again, on a mission north of the Wall. The wife of a Davos, a visiting Roman senator, has been captured by Woads, and we have been asked to rescue her."

Bors frowned. "I thought the Romans sent out a party to look for her?"

Arthur nodded. "Their outcome is not hopeful. They are making their way back to Badon fort as we speak."

"Where has she been taken?" Agravaine asked, ever minded towards the mission rather than anything else. "Their fortress near the coast?"

Arthur shook his head, his green eyes solemn. "She is believed to be inland, imprisoned deep within lake country."

"Merlin's sorcery reigns there," Galahad said quietly. "None who venture out return unchanged."

"If they return at all," Gawain mumbled.

"I see that the night has turned you both into frightened women," Tristan said as he cut into an apple with his knife. "Perhaps you should stay home and mind Bors' children."

Galahad's eyes crackled with rage, and he lunged across the table with a roar. He was held back by Kay, who shoved the young man back into his chair with one swift push.

"Enough," Kay said. "You are all acting like children. They only speak of what may be a threat, Tristan. Even you have spoken warily of Woad magics before."

"Regardless," Arthur interrupted. "It is our charge to rescue this woman before any harm is done to her. We leave as soon as the Roman search party returns. God willing, we will outride the snow."

Lancelot stayed behind once our meeting was finished, but for what purpose I did not know. I was overcome with a strange sense of apprehension as I exited the hall, and retreated to my quarters instead of following the others to training. I lit candles, taking a seat on the long, wide sill of my window and watching the shadows dance upon the wall. Something about this mission was terribly wrong, but why was I receiving this portent? If anyone was in tune with such matters, it was Tristan, even with his earlier naysaying. Perhaps I was just overthinking. The true solution would be to get out of my room and be sociable…but it was the last thing I desired to do at the present moment. I felt my eyes closing of their own accord, though I was far from tired. My stomach tied itself into knots, and a fearful spike ran up my spine as I lost waking awareness.

* * *

_I saw my home, and knew I was dreaming. My sister and brother stood in front of our small cottage, my father lying dead at their feet. Argyle followed, an arrow piercing his chest. Amara crumpled into an old woman, with shock white hair and ashen skin. Before I could scream, they faded and I was surrounded by blackness. Whispers sounded loudly in my ears, speaking of death and curses and other things in strange languages that I couldn't understand. A bearded man appeared before me, blue paint swirled onto his face. His eyes were wise, and though he spoke to me in the language of the Woads, I understood every word._

"_Annaka, child of Siraces. I am Merlin, and the people of the North follow me. It is my magic you fear, and my magic you will come to know. Great loss will precede the Roman woman, and great gifts will follow. Do not be afraid, rider of the Blue roan. Do not be afraid! A plague of Ghosts shall descend, do not be afraid. A lover where once was merely friend, do not be afraid. The loss of those you hold most dear, do not be afraid. Arrival of your greatest fear, do not be afraid. Pain endured beyond your ken, do not be afraid! Sight never to be seen again, do not be afraid! DO NOT BE AFRAID, RIDER OF THE BLUE ROAN! DO NOT BE AFRAID!"_

_Merlin, too, disappeared into nothingness. His words were confusing, and the grave tone beneath them was cause for worry. Still, I had no time to think on them as my surroundings changed. I was standing in a forest, the ground thick with mist. In the midst of this place was a lake, and an ethereal lady in white stood atop the water, a glimmering long sword in her hands, raised toward the sky. Her hair, though black as night, was bright as the stars, her eyes shone like diamonds in a face as white as snow. Her lips were red as blood; her voice was clear as water in a mountain stream._

"_Who are you?" I asked her._

"_I am you," She said, without moving her mouth. "I am the Lady of the Lake—I am past, I am present, I am future. I am maiden, I am mother, I am crone! I am wench, I am knight, I am queen! I am joy, I am sorrow. I am pain, I am death. I am loss, I am life, I am axe and sword and shield. I am woman, I am man, I am stone and earth and air! My home is lake, my home is sky, my home is place untouched by time. I bear the strength of bear and courage of eagle, and even in the face of fire I do not falter. I am not afraid, nor should you be. Do not be afraid, rider of the blue roan! Do not be afraid!"_

_I fell into the lake and began to drown, then, and bid my life farewell as the light faded from my eyes._

* * *

When I opened my eyes, I was on the floor, sweat covering my entire body. Someone was knocking hard on the door to my room.

"It is open," I called, getting to my feet.

"Gods above," Gawain said, a crooked smile on his face. "I've only been at it for ten minutes."

When he saw my state, he sobered. "Annaka, are you well? You look terrible."

I wiped at my brow with a sleeve. "Thank you for the vote of confidence. Bad dream, that's all. Nothing to worry about, long-locks."

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"What is it you wanted?" I asked after a minute.

"Only to tell you that training is not something you should miss twice."

I laughed at him and followed as he walked from the room. The training grounds were still frosted with dew at this hour of the morning, and my breath came from my lungs in clouds of smoke. Lancelot and Bors were already dueling, and Dagonet was unleashing his wrath upon an armored dummy. Tristan was farther out, using his bow against a row of distant targets. Galahad smiled at me, mischief in his eyes.

"Annaka," He said, raising his sword and pointing it like a finger at me. "Let's play, shall we?"

I smiled, equally amused. "You hungry, Pup?"

A flash of annoyance at the nickname we had given him only spurred him on. "You will lose, this morning."

I twirled my knife in one hand. "We shall see."

Even I had to admit, my spar with Galahad was furious. We both cried out in rage and rushed at each other, our swords sending sparks flying as they clashed together like waves upon rock. Eventually, when we reached our final round of combat in the late morning hours, the others had gathered round to watch. Galahad was young, his emotions quick to surface and take hold of his actions. I, though not many years his senior, seemed to be lacking in the self-control I had learned not long ago. I rushed at him with no thought toward defense, only attack. He countered to save himself from bloodshed, but then parried with just as much ferocity. Sweat dripped down from his hair into his bearded jaw, whose muscles tightened with frustration each time I succeeded in blocking him. As he made to swing again, I hooked my foot around his ankle and sent him tumbling to the ground. Before he could right himself, I ran forward and dropped one knee onto his chest, pinning him to the ground. My sword was pressed so hard to his throat that a thin line of blood spilled beneath the tip of the blade.

"Annaka!" Arthur called. "Stand down!"

His voice sounded strange. Muted, deepened, and not at all familiar. I could hear my heart beating in my ears, and visions began to swim in front of my eyes. I dropped my knife and stumbled to my feet, my temperature rising with each breath I took. I heard a strangled cry of distress, and realized after a moment that it was coming from me. My eyes rolled back into my head, and I fell forward, no dreams waiting for me in the darkness.

* * *

Dagonet caught Annaka's limp form before she could hit the ground. As the large knight held her in his arms, Gawain put a hand to her brow.

"She burns with fever," He said, his voice grave.

Dagonet could feel his heart sink as his suspicions were confirmed. He had spent too much time in the infirmary to believe her sudden collapse to be anything else. He was vaguely aware of Arthur speaking to the knights, but his main concern was getting Annaka to the infirmary. Finding her a bed proved a challenge, but after a quick scan of the sickroom he located one in the far corner, near the storage chamber where the herbs were kept. He was loathe to leave her side, and Gawain could see it in his face.

"I will stay with her, my friend," He said.

Dagonet nodded and went into the storeroom. After a moment of frantic searching, he found some of the poultice he had made several nights before. The amount would stave off the fever for a few hours, but she would need at least a day without a temperature for all chance of the plague to be lifted. Tristan stood in the doorway after a moment.

"The others are with Arthur," He said. "The Romans have caused some kind of disturbance in the market."

Dagonet rolled his eyes. "Mutiny, just what we need."

"What can I do?" Tristan asked after a minute.

Dagonet was always shocked, one way or another, by Tristan. Most thought the scout to be cold and distant, but every once in a while Tristan would prove them wrong. Particularly concerning Annaka, he possessed at least a spark of compassion.

"I need all the willow bark and coltsfoot you can carry," Dagonet explained. "A bit of lavender wouldn't hurt, either. Be quick, before the fever worsens."

Tristan nodded and disappeared from the room, as if he had never been there.

Gawain held Annaka's hand as tightly as he dared. Evening had fallen, and the snow had followed. It covered the ground in a thick layer, bringing silence with it. Arthur's wish to begin their mission before the weather took hold had not been granted, and Gawain wondered if it was an omen for things to come. He prayed to all the Gods he knew as he sat by the bedside, hoping with all his heart that Annaka would pull through this sickness. Her armor had been removed, and sweat had soaked through the linen tunic she wore. How a person could become so warm without bursting into flame was beyond him. Every now and again, Dagonet would appear from the back room and place a cool cloth on her brow, while drawing another along her arms and shoulders in attempt to "bring the fire down" as he had described it. Gawain thought it odd that someone as outwardly intimidating as Dagonet could be so gentle. His slow, deliberate movements as he washed Annaka's skin could have been interpreted as sensual, but one look at Dagonet's expression told Gawain otherwise. He was worried, and moved as he did out of compassion, not of lust. As the large knight moved on to another sick patient, Gawain moved a stray bit of hair from Annaka's face. He thought, suddenly, of a time he had not revisited for many a year. She had been but sixteen, and he two years her senior. His twin brother, Gaheris, had been killed in a Woad raid not one week before his eighteenth birthday—a day Gawain did not celebrate for himself, though the others encouraged him to. He had come to her room, unable to sleep. He cried that night, as he had not wept since, for the loss of his brother.

"I've not done that since I was a boy," He told her.

"You still are a boy," She had said.

He remembered with a smile how he had sat up straighter and puffed out his chest. "Am not."

She had taken his face in her hands and touched their foreheads together. "You'll always be that lanky Aorsi boy to me, long-locks."

He had kissed her, then. At the age of eighteen, she was not his first woman, but she was the only one he was truly happy to think on. She had given him her maidenhead that night, a gift he did not take without thought. From that night on, she had changed in his eyes. They remained close friends, but always he remembered their shared nights, though they were few. The sudden thought that she may not survive the Ghost Death made him realize that she meant more to him than he had been allowing himself to believe.


End file.
